


Cry Havoc

by skullduggery



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Dehumanization, Dubious Consent, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Muzzle Kink, That's not proper workplace behavior Brock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 16:14:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2587826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skullduggery/pseuds/skullduggery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...and let slip the dogs of war. The asset's on a job, Rumlow babysits. Rumlow gets bored sitting around in the fuckin' cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cry Havoc

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brawlite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/gifts).



> basically just an excuse to write winterbones trash ft. dehumanization kink. blame brolly for being a beautiful awful enabler.

He’s taking big snuffly breaths through the mask and you can just _tell_ that if it weren’t for the ski goggles, you’d see his eyes gleaming. He scares the shit out of you when he’s like this, he really does, so you nudge his side to snap him out of it. Over the roaring wind outside your cover, you hear him growl, see him flinch away minutely with his index finger clenched a little tighter around the trigger guard of his rifle. At least it’s better than the creepy mouth breathing, you think, and sink back into your coat.

When the weather’s bad, the asset’s right hand stays buried inside his parka under layers of down and fur, but every now and then you catch a flash of silver when he’s readjusting his scope, seemingly unphased by Svalbard in January. You’ve always wondered about the arm, never been able to figure out how much feeling it has, or how deep it goes beneath the skin. That’s above your pay grade, you just watch him shoot shit, give him a pat on the ass for a job well done, and send him home to daddy.

He seems to enjoy the shooting shit part, but you’re never entirely sure. You’ve seen him training, you know how he gets. Behind the mask, he’s got this constant twisted snarl of a grin on his face, and by the time they’re done putting him through his paces and pit him against live opponents, he’s fucking _panting_ for it, like hitting his mark is his only joy in life. Hell, it probably is.

When you were a kid, your neighbor had pit bulls. Not the nice kind. These ones had scars on their muzzles and lay around on plywood sheets in the broiling noon sun, tugging at short choke chains and waiting to be dragged off for the next fight. You, not being a very nice little boy, used to throw rocks at them from the top of the fence till they were all leaping and frothing for your blood. Egging them on like that was your favorite pastime in summer, cause even starved, limping and scared to shit, desperation to sink their teeth into something solid and alive always won out.

It’ll never stop being funny how much like the mutts you grew up taunting the Fist of Hydra is, but unlike those half-mad bitches, this one will let you throw as many stones as you damn well please without lifting a finger. You forget sometimes how dangerous he is when you’re not the one giving his orders, and ain’t that the drug of it. Fuckin’ intoxicating, is what it is.

This time when they woke him up, you were there. Asked to see the whole process in person. The two of you had been left in a little concrete room while he hacked up the last of the breathable jelly they suspend him in and got his feet under him, and, curious, you’d kicked him while he was down. It’s possible he hadn’t registered your presence at first, but he’d just lay there with his cheek to the pavement stared at the wall between your boots. When the grunts finally came to haul him to his feet for a bath, you had his head tilted up on your toe to look at you, and the strange fuckin’ animal was leaning into it, watchin’ you back like he was wondering if you’d get around to stomping his skull in.

When he looks at you like that, all dark, soft intensity, you wonder if he recognizes you. You sincerely hope he doesn’t, cause there’s no way you’d do half the shit you do to the kid if you knew he’d remember any of it. Wouldn’t say half the things you said as if he wasn’t listening. It’s not the violence you have to watch for, and neither you nor any of your team care what you stuff the poor bastard with when the XO’s aren’t looking. It’s the times you pet his hair and tell him how good he is to watch him squirm you don’t want sticking, cause that breeds loyalty, and you’re not sure if you want something like him to expect anything from someone like you but pain.

It’s getting close. Ten minutes till the target’s due to show, and the asset’s getting fidgety.

“Down, boy,” you order, and he must resent you, but he goes eerily still with the softest of sighs. From a distance, the two of you must be invisible in all this fuckin’ snow. Just a gun and a faint streak of dark brown where a lock of hair’s slipped out from the asset’s parka into his face.

You’re bored. Seconds slip by painfully. You check your watch five times in half as many minutes, and lapse into thoughts about the asset, still in uniform and bouncing on Jack’s dick in the quinjet this morning. He’s afraid of heights of all things, fuck knows why, so it only made sense to distract him from the long flight, but Jack was an asshole and hadn’t shared, leaving you pissed off and horny enough to do something real stupid about it on the job.

The asset’s serial killer breathing is only slightly less creepy when it’s coming from his nose instead of his mouth, but he’s still unmoving as the fucking snow itself, and you have another five minutes, give or take.

Your glove’s off and your hand down your pants before you can even really register the cold. The asset huffs, and it’s probably just a chill, but you’d swear if he had a personality rattling around in that skull of his, he’d be telling you off.

 _Fuck you, some of us aren’t robots_ , is what you don’t say, because he’s not Rollins, just a gun with a pulse, and start jerking your cock with rough, practiced strokes. It doesn’t take long for you to get hard, not with an overactive imagination and fresh memories to work from. Two minutes left, and you’ve got to squeeze the base of your shaft to keep from creaming your damn pants. You drop your head back, breathing slow and waiting, right on the edge.

To your right, the asset shifts once more. There’s a single muffled crack of rifle fire and you’re shooting off into a cupped fist to the sound of him already dismantling the firearm and your own stifled swearing into your scarf. He’s barely got the gun back in its case when you’re yanking him down to your level by a fistful of loose hair, hood and eye gear shoved back and neck straining, exposed to the elements. He’s silent, still, and you’re ripping at the clasps on his mask.

It comes off, and he is indeed panting, open-mouthed, beneath it, eyes glassy and vacant after nigh on an hour of focusing through a scope. You get another one of those anticipatory stares and almost kick him again for laughs.

“Open wide,” you bark, smearing your palm across his lips and he hisses, whether in surprise or from the sudden cold on his flesh you neither know nor care. There’s a short delay, but he does open, pretty red lips taking your sticky, probing fingers like it’s as natural as pulling a trigger. You gag him and he retches, groans, and doesn’t do a damn thing about it but tear up a little. It’s heady and hot, like a drug, a fucking _drug_ how completely he changes, how flexible that unflinching obedience is, even when his cheeks are burning and his metal hand’s got a vice on the rifle’s barrel.

You make him lick your hand completely clean before you let him bundle up again, drying your hand off with a ruffle of his hair before putting your own glove back on. There’s a smear of semen across his cheek he’s still trying to get at with his tongue when you refasten the muzzle at the base of his skull. You give the tough polymer a quick pat.

In the second before the asset’s reflective goggles snap back into place over the top of the mask, he gives you a lingering glare that makes your heart skip up to your throat. That stirs something nasty in you, makes you want to call him out on it, test just how much pent up frustration he’s hiding right about now. All it would take is a little push, the right jagged stone tossed just so and--

Your comm beeps and you damn near leap out of your skin, looking up to see your transport’s shields shimmering down a little ways off. You stand and stretch, then turn to clap the asset on the shoulder.

He flinches, whimpers like it hurt, and rises lithely to his feet with all your gear slung over one shoulder. Over the incoming humm of the engines, you lean in till his furred hood’s tickling your jaw.

“You’re all bark, no bite, baby.” Like you’re admonishing a small child, and it makes you feel a bit bigger in his shadow, but you can feel his eyes on you like ice the whole ride back to HQ.

 


End file.
